


Jorge and Michele enjoy dessert

by Always_Dreaming



Category: MotoGP RPF, Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, tiramisù
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Dreaming/pseuds/Always_Dreaming
Summary: There seems to be a new couple in the paddock... They are trying to enjoy an evening meal out but are rudely interrupted.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DanisAngel26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanisAngel26/gifts).



“So I think you’ll definitely win in Qatar,” said Michele, clinking his glass with Jorge’s as they sat at a red and white checked table in a secluded restaurant by the sea front.

“Don’t sweet talk me, there’s a lot of work to be done before then.” Jorge smiled at his companion. It was so nice to have a relaxed dinner with someone calm and reassuring, away from the hectic and frenzied paddock.

“Oh, you’ll handle it, I’m sure.” He smiled even more sweetly and Jorge tutted.

“Stop looking at me like that, I’ll get too confident.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a rabble of people outside the window of the restaurant, many wearing yellow caps and number 46 t-shirts. Michele had his back to them, so Jorge tried to ignore them, but they had other ideas.

“Oooh!” they shouted. “It’s that faggot Lorenzo having dinner with his boyfriend!” An explosion of jeers broke out and Michele went to turn round.

“Don’t look! Just ignore them and they’ll go away. This happens all the time,” Jorge reassured him. “They soon get bored if I don’t react.”

“All the time? How do you put up with it?” 

The jeers and catcalls continued.

Jorge shrugged. “It’s just part of my life now. It’s much better than it used to be, believe me.” He caught the eye of the waiter, who nodded and went to talk to the restaurant owner, a small, rotund man with a huge moustache. He strode outside to the mob and shouted at them, so loudly and fiercely that they backed away, muttering darkly to themselves. The atmosphere quietened again with just the noises of the sea, the voices of the other diners, the odd car swishing by to be heard.

“So, where were we?” asked Michele.

“You were saying how brilliant I am.”

Michele tutted. “And how conceited.”

“Hey! You take me out to dinner then start insulting me, that’s not what I signed up for.”

“I thought YOU took ME out to dinner.” He kicked Jorge under the table, but it turned into more of a foot rub.

Another volley of insults escalated outside the window and Jorge sighed resignedly. It was lucky he was so used to all this stupidity.

But Michele frowned. “What’s the matter with them? They’re insulting you for doing something you didn’t even do and isn’t even wrong in the first place. Even if you were having a relationship with Marc, it’s not wrong.”

“It would have been.” Jorge patted his arm, hoping to stop him being angry. “Me and Marc would have killed each other, can you imagine us together? He’s hardly the calm, understanding type like you.”

“Neither is he perfect, like me.” His smile had returned, but so had the shouting outside.

“Fucking faggots, Marqueers and Whoregay!” The aggressors sounded drunk, like a crowd after a football match. “Fuck him over the table, you queer bastards!”

Jorge signalled the waiter, again. Who spoke to the manager, again. Who went outside to shout at the group of thugs, again. It was like a never-ending circle in Jorge’s life—every time he thought the abuse had ended, some bunch of fools started it up again.

“What would stop this happening would be your ex-team mate telling his fans to grow up and behave, but he never does.” Michele finished his last mouthful of tiramisu, then his eyes twinkled wickedly. “What WE should do, however, is play them at their own game.”

“What do you mean?”

Michele took his spoon, dipped it into Jorge’s unfinished tiramisu, and held it to his mouth. “Are they watching?”

Jorge glanced quickly to the window. “There’s a couple of them, yeah.”

“Perfect.” He fed Jorge the creamy dessert with a flourish and it had the desired effect of making the yobbos outside whistle and hoot with scorn.

“Look at the two faggots, Whoregay and his Spanish boyfriend,” they shouted. “When are you gonna suck him off?”

Something suddenly dawned on Jorge. “They think you’re Marc—your hair’s the same colour as his. Don’t turn round, then later you can give them the shock of their lives.” He chortled.

“What a good idea. Now you feed me. Come on.”

So they spent the next half hour feeding each other tiramisu as flamboyantly as they could, giggling so much it hurt. The jeering and shouting continued. At this late hour, the manager took one look at the last couple left in his restaurant and threw his hands up in despair.

“We are closing now, gentlemen,” he said eventually, handing them the bill. “You’ve provoked those guys outside, so please take care as you leave.”

“Oh, we will.” Michele’s expression was angelic and Jorge smiled fondly at him.

They went to the door of the restaurant.

“Are you ready?” the Italian asked, still with a naughty grin on his face.

“Yes. I’m ready for anything.”

They stepped out, and were greeted by a chorus of boos, jeers and catcalls, but when the callers saw Michele, the noises faltered.

“I know what you think Jorge is guilty of, but you are completely wrong,” he announced.

“That’s not Marquez,” muttered a few people. “Who the hell is he?”

“You think he was having a relationship with Marc Marquez but that didn’t happen.”

“Lorenzo’s a traitor!” yelled a rebellious voice. “He betrayed Rossi.” The others laughed.

“How do you know he didn’t get with Marqueer?” added another.

“I know this, because for the last two years, he’s been having a relationship with me.” Michele took Jorge’s hand, kissed it, then grinned smugly at the now completely silent group. “So why would he be conspiring with someone who wasn’t even his boyfriend?”

The louts muttered among themselves, then slowly dispersed, whinging and mumbling, but at least not shouting or attacking the couple.

“Well played,” said Jorge. “It probably won’t stop it ever happening again but for one night I can just be a normal guy without being abused.”

They smiled admiringly at each other for a moment.

“So if I’m your boyfriend of two years, shouldn’t I—can I—shall I—” stuttered Jorge, eyeing Michele’s lips.

“I wish you would.”

So Jorge kissed Michele standing in the doorway of the cosy little restaurant, as the crescent moon rose in the indigo sky and the little diamond stars winked and glittered down at them.

After a while, they stopped and gazed at each other, hot and out of breath.

“What shall we do now?” asked Jorge, feeling like he’d fall over if the doorframe wasn’t supporting his back.

“Er—your place or mine?” Michele fluttered his thick, dark eyelashes at him, a smile curling round his lips.

“You’re very forward, I’m not a cheap date you know.”

“I wouldn’t dream of saying you were.” They giggled.

Someone coughed behind them, and they turned to see the wife of the manager, her blonde hair falling out of its plait a little.

“I’m sorry to interrupt but I really need to shut the door now.” She smiled sympathetically at them.

An idea struck Jorge. “Before you go, do you have any more of that tiramisu? It’s delicious. Can I have some to take home?” He couldn’t stop smiling and she seemed to be charmed by his giddiness.

“Yes, I’m sure there is some left.” She went back inside and returned in a second, or so it seemed. Jorge had been too busy gazing at Michele to notice the time passing. She handed him a plastic box with a lid, secured with a couple of thick rubber bands. “Make sure to use it all up within twenty-four hours.”

“Oh we will,” said Jorge, winking at his lover.


End file.
